ALIAS WILSON GRAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3040, 19 June 1912, Page 89

ALIAS WILSON GRAY.

THE £TORY OF A STORY. By A. H. Bremnkh. With a rush and a roar, a clattering and jolting over myriad points, and a long-drawn whistle ending m an agonised wail, the express tor© into Oxley. Then a creaking of brakes, and the flash of flitting lights and faces, and we had pulled up at th© station. Up till this stag© of the journey, I had been th© only occupant of the compartment, but here, it seemed, my privacy w r as to be interrupted, for two men entered and seated themselves. Both were well-to-do-looking, of about middle age, and each had that calm purposeful demeanour that w© instinctively associate with men of the world. There seemed nothing particularly interesting about either, so "as the tram resumed its journey, I took up th© book I had been reading—“ Prodigality,” by Arthur Garrett—and continued with the story. Arthur Garrett was the nom d© plume of a very popular author, whose works were attracting a good deal of attention, and wore being read far and wide. Th© mystery surrounding the author’s real name had given rise to much speculation, but so far had remained unsolved. “Prodigality” was generally recognised as Garrett’s best book. It was a simple story, but told in a powerful, masterful manner that could not help drawing, to the work the attention it undoubtedly merited. After a few miles of rails had been raced over, the newcomer who had taken the seat opposite mine addressed me. “ Excuse me,” h© said, “but I see you are reading ‘ Prodigality.’ May I ask your opinion of it?” “I lik© it much,” I replied; “very much indeed. The author knows what he is writing about, and treats his subject in a most powerful manner. In fact, in my opinion, the book seems autobiographical ; but whether such be the case or not, it is a splendid work.” “It is a splendid work,” repeated the other. Then after a pause he continued : “I would give anything to find out who Garrett really _is.” “You ar© not the only on© who would like that information,” I answered. “No, I suppose not,” he said. Then turning to the other passenger, who had not yet spoken, he asked, “May I ask if you have read ‘Prodigality’ 7” “Yes,” he replied elowlv; and after a moment’s thought he added, “I’ve read all Garrett’s works.” His manner was that of a man who does not want to be drawn into conversation, and implied that as far as he was concerned the subject was dropped. The other whose name, I learned from his bag was T. R. Williams, seemed determined to continue, and after puffing steadily and strongly at his pipe for a few* minutes, addressed us both.

"That book," he said, "reminds me forcibly of an old college chum of mine named Wilson Gray. Wilson and I both went to the same college about the same time, and soon became great friends. He was one of the most vivacious, happy-go-lucky fellows one could wish to meet, ever readv for mischief or devilment, and as good-hearted as could possibly be. The more we knew of each other the closer did our friendship become, and from the faefc of our nearly always being together, we were nicknamed 'The Twins.'

"When our college days were over both Wilson and I got employment in the same city, and though wo lodged a good distance apart, still contrived to see a good deal of each other. About thia time. I met and fell in love with Bertha Martin. There's no use describing her to you, it would take too long, and then you'd have no adequate conception of what she was like. At all events, I decided that she was- the only woman in the world for me, and in a few months' time I proposed and was accepted. Late that night I rushed to Wilson's 'diggings,' determined that he should be the first to hear of my ioy. Bursting uneeremoniouslv into his rooms, I found him busy writing. " 'Congratulate me, Wilson,' I cried. ' I'm: going to marry the very best girl in the world.' "He rope from his work, with a laugh, saving as he took my hand. ' It's always the ' best girl,' Tom. isn't it?' " 'But.' he added, after finishing his congratulations, ' you haven't told me yet who Rhe is '

"'Bertha Martin,' I replied, 'I —-. What's wrong old man,' I exclaimed in great alarm, for on hearing the name of mv betrothed Wilson's face had gone a«hv white, and he had staggered back against the table, which support evidently kept him from falling. " Then, in a moment, the truth dawned upon me. Wilson also had loved Bertha.! Yes, I saw it all too'plainly now. I understood the ashv face, the pained look, the momentary helplessness. Ala*! here was my best friend in love with the cn'rl I had courted and won. Put yourself in my position, and vou can imagine how I felt. In a few moments, however, Wilson had recovered himself, and again seizing my hand he exclaimed : " I congratulate you more than ever, Tom. You have indeed won the" best tn'rl in the world. Come,' turning to a sideboard and producing a bottle of brandy, a soda svphon, and two glasses, ' join me in drinking to your happiness.' " T saw that he had conquered himself, and though he wa* the unfavoured snitor, had determined thJt our friendship should remain unbroken. For hours we sat together, Wilson continually sipping his brandy and soda, and doing most of the talking. Never before had his conversa-

lion, been so brilliant, his wit so dazzling. At all times, when he so desired, he was a fascinating conversationalist, but thai night he surpassed himself. Suddenly he stopped talking, and opening another bottle, filled his glass again. " 'This brandy Js pretty Btrong,' he said, 'but I must forget somehow.' Ho seemed quite unaware of my presence, and after taking a sip from his glass," lit a cigarette, and threw himself back in his chair. While doing so he noticed me, and with a start sprang to his feet. 'Oh I a thousand pardons, old man!' he cried, coming unsteadily towards me. ' I had forgotten you. Another drink! Say, when.' : i - • •

"Shortly afterwards I left my friend laughingly persisting in seeing me ' off the premises." At the door he shook my hand and said, ' Good-night, old boy. We can't both have the same girl, but let our friendship etill be unbroken.' Before I could, answer he was inside, and had closed the door.

" Naturally, I 'was very cut up ovei what. I had just discovered; but the thing couldn't be helped now, and there Mas no use fretting over it. Still, it did. seem hard that my bosom friend and I both fall in love with the same girl. Try as I liked, I could not sleep that night," My mind was too full of joy and sorrow to let me rest. For about three weeks Wilson stayed about town, always inoro or less the worse for drink; then suddenly he completely disappeared. None knew where he had gone, and none sav« myself guessed the reason of his going." History and his manner of telling it had been very interesting, so on his pausing I asked : " Did you ever hear of your friend again? 1 ' "No," he replied. "But," he continued, addressing myself and the third passenger, " don't you think that the story bears a singular resemblance to ' prodigality' ?" " Yes," we answered together, " ifc does." " So I thought—in fact, I sometimes feel convinced that Wilson wrote it, and ever since I first lead the book I've been trying unsuccessfully to find out tbe author's real name. No one who had not himself been through the agonies portrayed in the story could write witJi the familiarity with which the author of 'Prodigality' treats his subject. Every emotion is so truthfully and lucidly de* scribed that I'm positive that the author, whoever he is, has worked into hia story a good deal of his own experiences." " It would almost appear so," I agreed. The 'other listener -had again lapsed into silence, and appeared to tftite no further notice of the conversation. ' My loquacious vis-a-vis, however, continued ruminating on, the likeness of the two stories. " I'd give anything," he went on, " to meet Wilson again, but goodnass only knows where he is now. For all I know he might be dead. Have you eyer noticed how people who are everything to each other in their young days ar# almost, always destined to drift apart? Ik seems to be one of the laws governing our lives, that our whole existence is mode up of partings with friends we love ana esteem. Some friend whose presence w» think absolutely indispensable to our happiness drifts away from us; scene other person's acquaintance is cultivated, the acquaintance ripens into and the void is to a certain extent filled. Tilings are ' the same, yet not the same/ In our new friend Ave find missing some little peculiarity or weakness' that in our old friend we loved. Then, perhaps, comes the news of the death of our first friend. Nothing definite—just the faintest rumour, drifted from one place to another; nothing beyond the fact that he is dead. And wo" wonder how he died! Was there soma loving voice near him to comfort his last moments, or was he a stranger _ in a strange land? How had he fared in the great struggle of life! Did he die in Opulence, or in poverty? Was he honoured and renowned, or obscure ana neglected? All these and many other thoughts go through our mind, but our curiosity cannot - be satisfied. Even tho place of his death is unknown to u*. All we heard was that he was dead. Where he died, how he died, we know not Dead! Ths word has a strange sienificanc©.' Dead! Think of it! Tbe

companion of our youth, whoi,f '» «*' fected and esteemed so much ia now noinjr but a cold, inanimate, soultess piece clay. It takes as some time to realise It: It is all bo strange, so sudden, so unexpected. That's just how I fSE about Wilson. But, after aU, he mightnt be dead. One occasionally hears false resorts of the kind." " Yes," I assented., " On e> doss sometimes hear of such mistakes/ - "That is so," chimed in the sUeot passenger. "In such oases rumour is somefjmeTat fault. X hvn heari o? more than one such case. This must be Clayton "-as the engine whistled and slowed down. " I'm getting off here, and be began to collect Ids luggage. Saving placed his coat over his shoulder, his 8 umbrella, under his arm, and taken his grip in hie left *»*%** canie forward Vith the other .*****£ toward the narrator of the story of WU *™ Goodbye, Tom, old man," he said J* the train ipped. "I« £« should drog across any of the old boys again, tell them thai rumour has once «»»J«£' arid that you've pet Arthur Garrett, alias Wilson Gray." . . In a second he was gone and lost to view in the crowd that thronged the station."